


Salute The Dead

by KilltheDJ



Series: Angels Made From Neon And Garbage [1]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, The Youngblood Chronicles (Music Video)
Genre: Angst, but fluff, it is petekey centric, much zone slang, this will be a long fic, you will not like Show Pony in the first chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2019-11-21 06:32:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18138668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilltheDJ/pseuds/KilltheDJ
Summary: Mr. Sandman is not a Killjoy, and he will never be a killjoy.He was perfectly content in the Underground, with his crew, but, no. He had to find himself out in the Desert, for 'about two months' as Benze's smug voice had put it, with two killjoys who seemed to be called the Venom Brothers for more than one reason, and two bomb suppliers who somehow keep popping up. And then there's the situation as to why he's there, and why he hates it, and he just wants to be back in the Underground. The cold Underground where he didn't get weird looks for having a reasonable hair color and wearing all black. But of course, he can't, because even if he hates the desert, he doesn't want to be there to see everything falling apart.Oh, and to top it off, the boy he's getting a crush on seems to be harboring some secrets, too. Just great.





	1. Of Pretty Boys and Radio Heads

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry the description sucks! I had one planned out and then ao3 said NO and I said FINE I'LL JUST WING IT and here we are.

SALUTE THE DEAD

Chapter One

Mr. Sandman was a Youngblood, part of a crew that practically ran the underground division of a rebellion, right underneath the city they were rebelling against. He was part of something, darting in and out of dim tunnels and going between a monotone city and the dark pallor of his home, the Underground.

He fit in there, with his dyed black hair and his black attire; he fit in with his 'tear them apart from the inside - or, rather, the Underground' attitude; he fit in with his knowledge of everyone there, of everywhere they could be going in the Underground. It was his home, and he had no intention of leaving it, and he made sure everyone knew that.

So, why, of all places, Benze was sending him on a mission in the desert? The bright, radiation-filled, empty, insanely hot hellscape that was called the Zones, when he could be in the the cold comfort of the Underground?

Now, see, that was the thing: he new exactly why Benze was sending him to the desert, for a rendezvous with some killjoy he didn't even bother to learn the name of.

Because Sandman was a problem.

Because Sandman wasn't getting along with Dr. Benzedrine, because Benze blamed him for Rose Gold, because Sandman wasn't quiet about the fact that it wasn't his fault, because he wasn't fun to be around when he was in his moods that he was always in. 

"Ugh, killjoys," Sandman swore under his breathe, fully aware that he was alone, surrounded by nothing but cracked pavement, the horrible pick up truck that he was forced to drive, the never-ending dunes of sand that were constantly shifting, and, of course, the wind carrying the sand, making a valiant attempt to murder Sandman's vision, stopped only by the windshield between them. 

He hated it. He hated the desert, and he hated how people could live here and call it home, and he hated how hot it was, and how there was something trying to kill you at every turn, and how there was nothing but blatant reminders of what was before, that Sandman hadn't even been alive to see. 

And, of course, Benze had sent him as far away as possible - to Zone 6, which was notorious for it's proximity to No Man's Land, and, in true crude killjoy fashion, it's drag races. He was supposed to meet up with some killjoy; that same killjoy he hadn't bothered to learn the name of (yup, it was totally because he wasn't bothered to know, not because Benze hadn't even told him, definitely). He was just told to be there, and said contact would know it was him.

The worst part was, he knew Benze was right to send him away somewhere out of the Underground for a few days, and that he knew for a fact that he was not going to fit in here like he did in the Underground.  
_

When he arrived at the drag races, he realized he had never hated being right as much as he did in that moment. 

The drag races weren't really something stationary; their locations changed constantly, because they didn't need a location. They just needed a stretch of semi-flat desert (which wasn't hard to find, really), and a way to let people know where they were.

From what Sandman could see, there was one make-shift shelter presumably where people went to place their bets on who would win. There was a sizable crowd obscuring where the racers actually were, and where they were starting, but Sandman could clearly see the neon blue traffic cone in the distance that marked where they stopped. 

He didn't want to be here, and he wasn't going to pretend he did. If people couldn't tell he wasn't meant to be here by the fact that he blatantly didn't fit in, then they could probably figure it out y the snarl he was wearing the entire time he trudged through the never-ending sand to the somehow-passable-or-seating seating. It was really a log in the sand but it wasn't as hot as the sand, so.

Did he mention how much he hated the desert? Looking around, he was vividly reminded that it wasn't just the terrain that made him wary of this place. It was also the people. They were reckless, loud, impulsive, and, worst of all, they were so freaking colorful. They wore all neon, all colors that clashed horribly and they didn't understand the importance of asking questions first and shooting later.

He didn't know how long he sat there, cursing Benzedrine and the killjoys, suffocating under his all black attire and black mop of hair, not even bothering to look remotely interested in the races. He was watching them, sure, but that's not where his head was. He was vaguely aware that the person on the left won constantly, with a bright painted bike and helmet. He wasn't even going to try to comprehend the colors on it; it was just so much work trying to decipher anything beyond that there was sand, and blurs that appeared to be neon colored people. 

Sandman was just about to say hallelujah and give up, seeing as no one was even attempting to make contact with him when he so obviously didn't belong here, when he heard a voice next to him say, "You're going to die of heat exhaustion in that."

He turned to snap at whoever had decided to talk to him, and saw only a yellow helmet, with some colorful design or whatever, and GOOD LUCK in white lettering over the visor. How did he even see in that? "I don't live in this horror scene, so it's fine."

He'd said it as blankly and bored as possible, trying to make sure there was no mistaking both the disinterest and venom in his voice, but the person in the visor just shook their head (or so Sandman assumed). "Yeah, clearly. You're Mr. Sandman, right?"

"Depends on whose asking, I suppose." Oh. So this was probably his contact. Whatever. At least he clearly knew how to drive (considering he'd won a majority of the races. That was the guy, right? Sandman was pretty sure.)

The person took off their helmet and - Sandman had another 'oh' moment. The person underneath was not only a boy, but was also the most pretty boy Sandman had thought he had ever seen. And one of the most recognizable. 

Underneath the strange helmet, there was a boy with blatantly bleached blond hair that was falling in his face, that was short and brown at the sides, framing a startlingly pale face (it was the desert and this guy still managed to be pale? Really?). The posters most definitely hadn't done him justice. They totally left out the cheekbones and chapped lips and hazel eyes. No, most of the time they just had the red X and the familiar headline 'WANTED - THE KOBRA KID'.

The pretty boy, Kobra Kid, one of the well-known Venom Brothers, had grease or oil smeared across his cheek and at his hairline like he'd went to run his hands through his greasy-looking hair and just forgot his hands were dirty. He was smirking at Sandman's silence, seemingly assuming he'd figured it out. "Kobra Kid. The one you're here to meet."

His snarky tone shocked Sandman back to reality - you know, the reality where he remembered that the Venom Brothers were two of the worst killjoys; not in their attire, but in their stereotypical killjoy loudness and trail of destruction left in their wake.

"I'd say it's nice meeting you but that's a lie, can we get this over with?" Sandman said, with a distinctive snap to his voice. Yes, he was aware that he'd had to drive in Benze's stupid old truck for three days to manage to get here and that a ten minute meeting would be pointless, and he would hate himself all the more for it, but he really didn't care. He wanted to be here as little as he possibly could. 

The killjoy who's sat next to him just rolled his eyes and put on a pair of sunglasses that looked like they would do absolutely nothing to stop the sand from making him blind. "Sure, would you like to navigate all the way to Zone 4 by yourself?"

Sandman blinked. "What?"

"We have to get to the border of Zones 3 and 4, to meet up with my brother. If you don't knock the attitude, crash queen, you'll be navigating it yourself, 'cause I'll have left you to the static."

Well, it figures that he was being insulted. What was a crash queen, anyway? And static? Another thing to add to the list of things he hated about killjoys: they talked strangely. "Another two days of driving?"

"Depends," Kobra shrugged. He did not add more, much to Sandman's disappointment.

"I don't know how to get there, so...Do you wanna, like, put your bike in the back of the truck and drive?" Sandman asked awkwardly after he couldn't stand the silence anymore. He hated silence nearly as much as he hated the Zones and the killjoys. 

Kobra gave a rather disgusted look at doing anything but driving his motorbike; Sandman could see it was parked and off, but it was still where it would be had he been starting a race. It really was beautiful - an american flag with a spider painted in the middle was painted on the lower half of the bike, and up top, near the handlebars, there was number 27 in bold white, the way the bike had originally been, but it was surrounded by blue. Sandman mentally compared it to the beat up old pick up truck that Benze had insisted they keep and, more recently, demanded Sandman use in his escapade out to the Zones.

"Fine. But I'm tuning it to Dr. D's station," Kobra finally relented with a tight-lipped, near-grimace.

They simultaneously got up, walking over to Kobra's pristine vehicle. It nearly looked like it pained him to kick up the kick stand and start walking it in the direction Sandman was going, and Sandman mentally gave a smug look. Nice to see the killjoy as uncomfortable as him. 

-

As it turns out, there was a reason Kobra rode a motorbike instead of driving a car, which Sandman discovered after about two sharp turns that nearly left him with a concussion. He wasn't going to complain though, because to complain he had to speak, and to speak not only would he have to swallow the taste of terror (at Kobra's driving skills. Dear Lord, had the boy never learned to drive an actual car?), he would also have to make conversation, and to make conversation he would have to break their silent agreement to talk to each other.

It wasn't like Sandman wanted to talk to a killjoy, anyway. At least this one didn't have a horrendously and offensively bright hair color, and even the neon red jacket was paired with black jeans, so it was good. He still talked weird. And he kept messing with the radio, switching the station constantly even though they only ever switched to even more mind-numbing static.

Until, of course, he didn't.

No, instead of the static Sandman was beginning to begrudgingly get used to (once he'd gotten out to the Zones and lost New Americana's station, he'd just turned the radio off.), he could actually hear someone talking.

"Alright, killjoys, tonight's report: the Dracs are quiet out on Route Guano, stock up on what you need too, now's the time. Out in Zone 6, the Kobra Kid won most of the drag races, as per usual...Seems Fun Ghoul and Jet Star have been quiet lately, but not ghosted, so your top bomb suppliers are still in business. The static says there's gonna be a sandstorm blowing out in the third and fourth Zones, so bandannas up. Show Pony'll be back soon for his daily dose of Zone gossip, but for now, let me treat your minds with a new song by the mysterious Black Parade - It's called I Never Told You What I Do For A Living."

The song started immediately after the DJ stopped talking, but it was the DJ's voice Sandman was most concerned with. It was low, gravelly, and...familiar.

He decided not to focus on that too much, slapping Kobra's hand away from changing the station back to mind-numbing static and started singing along. He couldn't sing, and he knew it, but the Black Parade was the most popular band in the Underground - no one knew what they looked like, or who they were, or even whether they were killjoys or Juvee Halls, and it seems they'd never played a live show, but the Underground loved the energy of it all. They had everything from dance songs like Planetary (GO!), to songs that made you want to overthrow the government (which they already wanted to do, but amplified) like Na Na Na, to songs that made you want to cry, like Helena. This one was one of their angrier songs; he knew all the lyrics.

He wasn't paying attention to the killjoy next to him in the slightest - didn't need to, and didn't want to. This was a good song, and even if he had no intention of listening to that DJ anymore, he could jam out. It had been too long since he'd even been able to listen to music anyway.

Abruptly, the instrumentals at the end were cut off, and Sandman could instantly see worry in Kobra's face that he hadn't noticed while he was singing vanish. Huh. Thankfully, it was not replaced by static but with another voice - this one was younger, more bubbly, energetic.

"Hello to you Zonerats, it's your favorite Radio Head, Show Pony, with only the latest and greatest gossip for you. Rumor has it Fun Ghoul got mixed up with some exterminators earlier; we did find remnants of a building - you know, remember that shaking that rocked even the Burial Gardens? - and some charred Drac bodies, so...Milkshakes! Anyway, Noise Rabbit seems to have come out of his hidey hole and is in Paradise Motel if you need 'im...Unfortunately, it seems Dani California went all Ember Bridge on her crew and it's her undoing...On a lighter note, the as-of-yet unnamed crew comprised of Crystal Gears, Punk Princess, and Raven Rush have been kicking up a snowstorm of a surprise recently, stirring up trouble for our favorite exterminators - and it seems they've been planning their homecoming parade! Might go Costa Rica, but I'm excited. That's about it for the day...Minus, of course, the new arrival in the desert. Poor kid came out about three days ago, actually, shame he isn't dust yet. Anyway, don't call him a 'joy and don't call him a Juvee Hall, 'cause he's special or whatever, he's a Youngblood. It seems Mr. Sandman - yeah, you heard me, the one from the BCU - has decided to grace us with his oh-so-superior presence. Latest report says he was going home with Kobra Kid...For some reason.Y'know, my only question is, why did they send him? He might die from all that black he's wearing, or maybe from the glaring. Either way, why couldn't they send, say, Rose Gold? Everyone knows he's the negotiator - oh, wait. I forget what happened to him...it's why they had to send Dr. Benzedrine's sloppy seconds, right?"

About halfway through that spiel Sandman wanted to turn the damned thing off, having a sneaking suspicion they were talking about him, with the patronizing tone anyway. So, obviously, Kobra had to turn it up.

By the end, Sandman was reeling, his rage clearly shown on his face and by his clenched fists. He didn't know who 'Show Pony' was, or what they looked like, but Hell, Sandman was going to make them pay. How dare they? How dare they talk about Rose Gold like that? How dare they call him 'sloppy seconds'? How dare they de so insensitive? He was going to punch something; the moment he was able to get out of this truck, he was going to punch something.

This something was most likely going to be Kobra Kid, because out of the corner of his eye Sandman could see him smirking, like Sandman's anger was amusing. He hated killjoys - he loathed them, actually, and this just cemented it. Screw the killjoys. Screw them all. If they were in the desert, if they wore their colors, screw them.  
"Not a fan of Show Pony's report?" Kobra asked, amusement as plain in his tone as anger was in Sandman's expression. He seemed too calm, too collected for Sandman to even think rational, non-murderous thoughts about. 

"That wasn't just a report," Sandman seethed, going to turn off the radio but this time, it was Kobra slapping his hand away. It was his truck. Technically. Since Benze wasn't here. "It was an insult on so many levels I don't -"

"I don't want to listen to your lecture," Kobra interrupted, with a sigh. "And I like this song, so shut up, would you?"

Sandman glared at him long after he stopped talking, but he focused on the radio to hear whatever was on. And, suddenly, his anger froze in his veins, leaving only that icy hatred of the desert and it's citizens to rush back to his head full force, screaming, screaming, but not loud enough to drown out the bass line and lyrics and singer of the song playing.

It was called 'Future Storms'; it was an old song, from before the Analog Wars that eradicated Zone 7. It was a song made by a band from then, too -they were called 'Perfect Monsters'...they were comprised of Cherry Bomb, Dr. Death Defying, Crows Claws and American Beauty. He had seen them once. Once. As a small child.

Kobra didn't ask why Sandman was suddenly calm, his rage gone. For that, Sandman was grateful. That icy cold fuel in his veins started to get thicker, if that was possible. Too much. He'd managed three days on his own, and the day he has contact with another human being is the same day where he goes through at least two insanely intense surges of emotion; one rage and now he might cry. And all the while Kobra Kid seemed to have that permanent smirk stuck to his lips.

Benze was going to have Hell to pay when he got back; for now, he was going to get through it. Right?


	2. Of Active Threats and Nearly Split Knuckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They manage to get back to the diner...Somehow, Sandman wishes he could've stayed in the car.

Chapter Two

 

The drive out to Zone 4, or wherever Kobra was taking them, took the better part of a day, and that was with Kobra driving like a bat out of Hell. They didn't talk much, through any of it, though Sandman was just glad Kobra wasn't commenting on Sandman's mood swings, or why he'd been crying (if Kobra had seen him crying) or even why he seemed to hate the killjoys so much.

The downside to this was that during the entire drive, they did not once roll the windows down like Sandman had done on his drive out, and he was actually going to die of heat exhaustion like Kobra had first suggested.

By the time they got out, the sun was setting, and Sandman barely registered that they were outside of a diner before he was lying on the ground, face up, just breathing. You knew there was a problem when the desert was colder than what you'd been experiencing all day. Oddly enough, the sand wasn't even scorching beneath him.

He was shaken out of his relief by a sharp kick in the rib, instinctively making him curl up before he stood up, and gave Kobra a gesture that relied heavily on his third finger. "What was that for?!"

Kobra shrugged. "I needed you to get up. Party doesn't need any dead Undergrounders on his list, and neither do I. C'mon."

Sandman was half-tempted to ask what lit, but then figured it was some morbid killjoy thing, and settled for grimacing as he managed to get out of the sand, and grimaced even more when he saw the dingy, dark diner they'd apparently been driving all night to get too. 

He wished he could be back in the Underground. His room in the Underground was so much better than this dingy diner - and he had a sneaking suspicion, from Kobra's greasy hair and grimy clothing, that they did not, in fact, have showers. Unlike his room in the Underground. Ugh.

Kobra didn't say anything after that, and Sandman was getting sick and tired of this whole 'walking in silence' thing, because Sandman needed noise around him. Not the same type of noise that surrounded the killjoys - their firefights and bubblegum chewing and loud laughter and snarls and arrogance -, he needed the noise that surrounded his home - the sound of roller skates on concrete, the background chatter, the conversations with other Juvee Halls -. But currently he wasn't getting either side of the spectrum, because Kobra Kid refused to talk to him. Like he was better than him or something.

Sandman's first impression had been right; it was dark, with no light other than the setting sun, and it was dingy; there was dirt in every corner and some of the material oer the booths was torn, one window nearly blown out, and the counter was a wreck all on it's own. Yet, he could see Kobra's shoulders lose some of the tenseness he'd had all day that Sandman hadn't even noticed. The Underground may be his home - it appeared this old diner was Kobra's.

"Is Party Poison here?" He asked, though he was hesitant to disrupt the quiet aura that seemed to surround the building. It seemed like it was a place for lost souls, for ghosts to rest, for the sun to root, for endings to end and beginnings to begin. If that made sense. Sandman always did describe thing differently than everything else...In the desert, he remembered, he would likely be considered superstitious because of it. 

Kobra nodded, then raised a finger to signal a minute. At least, that was the assumption. Then, as loudly as physically possible, that seemed to shake the building, (no, no, the building did not shake, but Sandman swore it looked like it was for a second), he shouted, "Party! The crash queen is here and I'm not dealing with it!"

Sandman stared at him in shock. Kobra could yell? The boy who'd said practically nothing, and in a quieter voice than normal (even for Undergrounders, who were used to being quiet), could yell that loud? And, to top it all off, called him an 'it'?

He was going to comment on two things: one, that Kobra damn well knew he wasn't an it, he was a male, and two, once again, what was a crash queen and what did it have to do with him, but of course, right as he was about to, a different figure sauntered out of behind the diner's counter, from what he assumed was the kitchen.

This figure had firetruck red hair and a dark blue jacket - and the arrogance of an esteemed Crow. Party Poison. The other half of the Venom Brothers. And, as always, he was wearing his signature smirk - Sandman neglected to point out to him that the affect was slightly ruined by the black stuff on his face, much like the grease on Kobra's face. Charcoal, maybe? Or ash? Or could it be some kind of paint?

"You were right, Kobra. He does sorta look like he's supposed to be some low crash queen. What, with the scowl and midnight clothing he's got goin' on," Party said to Sandman, and he was obviously talking like Sandman wasn't in the room, much to his dismay. He somehow had a feeling that being with a pair called the Venom Brothers was not going to help matters with his temper.

Kobra nodded. "He acts like one too. Nearly left 'im out in Zone 6, let him die out in the sun, see if anyone noticed."

"Dr. D would, he notices everything. And then he'd be mad because we're 'not supposed to let people die'." Party rolled his eyes like that was a totally normal principle to be disagreeing with, and jammed his thumb toward Sandman, who was standing with his arms crossed in defiance. "And as for why you're here...you got a way to talk to your doc, Halo Head?"

Before Sandman could answer, Kobra interrupted him, surprisingly. "Not sure he's a Halo Head yet. He does seem to hate everythin' breathin' under the sun, though."

"Halo Head," Party grinned.

"First off," Sandman scoffed, "What's a 'halo head', and second off, I didn't drive for three days to forget our walkie talkies. They're modified to communicate out until No Man's Land, but it gets less comprehensible around the Burial Gardens and Zone 2."

Party and Kobra shot each other a look (assumingly to use weird brotherly telepathy powers) that had clear significance, but Sandman couldn't figure out why. Then, Party took a step closer and held his hand out, wanting the walkie talkie. "A Halo Head is a 'joy who thinks their part in the revolution puts them above others. They generally hate Batt Rats, Neutrals, Tumbleweeds...In your case, it's a Hall thinkin' they're above us 'joys."

"I'm not a Juvee Hall," Sandman answered immediately, and didn't uncross his hands to give Party the device. "To clear it up. I'm a Youngblood. And I don't think I'm better than you. I just don't like the Zones."

Party gave him a feral grin; Sandman suddenly felt like a cornered mouse, and not only was Party a cat, he was a lion. No wonder they had their reputation. And now he was also nervous, because Party didn't seem the least bit impatient about wanting to get this over with. Party took a step toward him; Sandman held his ground and didn't step back, though his nerves were screaming at him that he should. "Yeah? And what's wrong with the Zones, Halo Head? There somethin' wrong with us?"

What was breathing again? Sandman should probably do that. He also probably shouldn't let Party scare him like this, but he knew their reputation - and the fact that Kobra Kid was standing in the background with a completely blank face (if not a slight smirk) didn't hep matters, and he had no idea how to get out of here and oh dear Lord. "I - there's - there's nothing wrong with you I just - I don't like the Zones - you - it - strange - and its a hellscape."

Party scoffed, taking another step toward Sandman. Now he was close enough to grab the collar of Sandman's prized leather jacket, clenching it in one gloved hand Their faces were inches away now, and Sandman could only see the eyes of a boy who had grown up too fast, and a boy who would do anything to keep his brother safe, and in his mind, Sandman was not only a threat to him, but a threat to his brother. "This 'hellscape' is better than living right under the place you're trying to eradicate like rats in a sewer. And just like a rat, you need to learn your place out here in the big bad desert. It starts with not insulting our home and us, got it?"

And then Party was gone, back to Kobra's side, with an easy grin like his face only knew two expressions: grin and smirk. And Sandman was standing there, shaken, realizing his palms were both shaking and sweaty, and holding the walkie talkie. He handed it over with no other comments. His heart was beating so quickly it might burst out into his hand, blood and all.

Which was strange, because he was usually not intimidated this easily, and even when he was, he had some snarky comment to make about it. To the caged animal that was Party Poison, he did not. To the silent bomb he was scared Kobra Kid might be, he did not. 

"Well? You're the Undergrounder, you gonna at least listen to the call with your crew?" Kobra asked, seemingly moderately annoyed. He was tapping his foot impatiently as Sandman slowly made his way to sit at one of the stools up front, right next to Party and right in front of Kobra. 

"This is Party Poison, 'posed to talk to the good doctor today?" Party said into the device, after obviously turning it on. It was still at the channel Sandman and Benze had somehow agreed on. 

It was a minute later, but they at least got an answer. It was from a voice that was about as happy with Sandman as Party Poison. "Great! I wasn't able to explain anything to the Tumbleweed that spoke too, classified and all. Is Sandman with you?"

Dr. Benzedrine. 

Sandman nodded, only realizing Benze couldn't see that when he got a weird look from Kobra. He took the device from Party with more hesitation than he should've, clicking the small button before talking. "Yeah, I'm here, Benze. Is now when you'd like to explain why you sent me on a four day trip to the desert?"

"It's gonna be a lot longer than four days," Benze said immediately, then as an after thought added, "So long as Party Poison and Kobra Kid are okay with that."

They did their weird brother telepathy thing again; this time it was Kobra taking the walkie talkie from Sandman. "Depends on why, Benzedrine. That's still the most important thing right now. I better not have wasted my time leading your crash queen here."

Benze took a second to respond - if anything, Sandman guessed it was because of both the new voice and the term, crash queen. Sandman himself was still confused on that one. "You didn't, I promise. But you and your brother have one impressive reputation you're riding on, and I have a mission. But that mission is a timely one, and it requires a lot of passion and skill and guts. And who better than you two?"

Kobra passed the walkie talkie to Party. It seemed Party was the one who made the executive decisions, or maybe they both did, and Party was just the one who verbalized them. "Yeah? What timely mission? And passion ain't got nothin' to do with it, but we got skill and guts in spades."

"I want to start a full-scale uprising in Battery City," Benze was whispering now, almost like it was a secret. To Sandman, it wasn't a secret, it was a surprise, because what the Hell, when did Benze have this idea? "I want to spring all the rehabilitated killjoys and Juvee Halls. Most of the people in the BCU can only help from behind the curtains, but they know you, and you have both influence in the Zones but also resources. It would take a while to plan, so I was thinking Sandman could stay with you until then. Say, a few months? Two, if we get this right? It's entirely up to you, of course, but think of the numbers we could get back, think of the people we could bring back."

Dead silence nested into the diner; Party had a vice grip on the walkie talkie, his face showing just how shocked he was. Kobra, if anything, had just furthered his smilarities to a really, really attractive rock, though Sandman noted he was now standing with hs arms crossed and legs apart like he was about to start a fight, and Sandman himself? Well, he was trying to figure out where along the line Benze came up with this and where along the line he decided he didn't need to tell Sandman until he toldcomplete strangers. And, obviously, when Benze had begun thinking it was okay to force Sandman to stay in the neon nightmare that happened to be the Zones, with the cherry on top being the radiation scorching the land. 

There was another three minutes of silence (Sandman counted. It was the only way he could distract himself from the fact that he was practically steaming at the ears), with brotherly telepathy going on of course, before Party hesitantly pressed the button that allowed him to speak, and said, "This goes Costa Rica and it'll be your head on the line, Benzedrine; your head on the line and your crash queen friend here will be the body that greets you."

And that seemed to be it. That seemed to be the sentence that cemented that Sandman had to stay in ths deathtrap, with these mentally deranged and maybe color blind killjoys - and the worst part was that he couldn't even opt out. Because, if he did, that could put at least a hundred killjoy and Juvee Hall lives down the drain...Lives they didn't remember, but lives they could regain nonetheless. 

Benzedrine didn't answer again, and Party tossed Sandman the little device he wanted to blame for this entire happening. Their little group dispersed after that - Party went back to whatever he'd been doing (that probably had to do with whatever was smeared across his face), and Kobra disappeared somewhere behind the counter, leaving Sandman just sitting there, on the old ratty stool, staring at a tiled wall that had really seen better days, wondering just how exactly he was expected to live out here....with them. Killjoys.

Now he really wanted to punch something. Now he knew that he wasn't going to have the proper medical supplies to fix his split knuckles for the next few months. Now he wanted to scream at Benze more than he probably ever had in his life, even after what happened.

A while later, after Sandman had continuously slammed his fists into the scratched up counter-top and taken out and polished every single one of the knives on his person (knives were kind of his thing, his trademark, okay?), Kobra Kid came back out of wherever he'd been hiding. Maybe Sandman should familiaritize himself to the diner if he was going to live here for a while...Sounded like a hard no to him.

Then there was something soft thrown at his face, and he looked up in alarm to see Kobra, who was smirking (instead of that excellent poker face of his), and wearing pajama pants that were way too short for his long legs. "Here. It gets cold at nights, and you aren't accustomed to the temperatures of the desert. I set up a room for you."

 

Sandman took a few seconds to process the words that just reached his head, and belatedly looked down to see he'd been thrown a pair of fuzzy pajama pants and a long sleeve t-shirt. "...Oh." Then he realized something that had seemed off to him the entire day. "Is it just you and your brother? Do you not run with a crew?"

Kobra shrugged, gesturing Sandman to follow him behind the counter. "Never really wanted to. We didn't want to join an existing crew, 'cause if I'm gonna run with people I need to be able to count of every single one of them to watch my back, and to do that we'd need to find them on our own, you know? So we just don't run with a crew."

"Isn't it better to run with a crew you don't trust than be all alone out in the Zones?" Sandman asked curiously, because he really did want to know. He'd always known Benzedrine, he'd met Phoenix Menace when he was young, and Young Detonator had just hung around them so much they'd pretty much adopted him. He'd never been alone, especially not alone in the desert. And besides, there were plenty of people he didn't trust in the Underground.

Kobra shook his head no, leading Sandman into a glorified broom closet, but it was stocked with blankets, and a pillow, and Sandman's legs were so short he knew he would have no problem fitting in. "I'd rather die by a known enemy than with the gun of a masked enemy in my back."

"Sometimes the person you'd take a bullet for is behind the trigger," Sandman muttered softly, standing just outside of what was supposed tobe his room, mostly hoping Kobra would grant him a conversation since the entire day was an absolute train wreck and not only did Kobra have an acceptable color of hair, he wasn't obnoxiously loud...and he wasn't as actively threatening as Party Poison, but Sandman could sense the low thrum of energy coming off of him in waves that read only 'dangerous'. 

"Yeah, and sometimes you're the one behind the trigger," Kobra answered, as quiet if not quieter than Sandman. "But sometimes the trigger is inside your head and everyone is living but not alive."

And then he walked away, leaving Sandman in a stunned silence. He did not expect that.

His quick recap of the day as he tried to fall asleep, or at least the 'people' category of his mental recap was the following: Dr. Benzedrine was getting a hard left hook the moment he got back to the Underground, Party Poison was absolutely terrifying and spoke only in the guttural, harsh dialect of English only killjoys knew, and Kobra Kid...He had no idea what to expect from Kobra Kid, not after their encounter before bed, not from the way he knew he was dangerous.

Welcome back to the Zones, he thought bitterly, though his mental exhaustion soon matched his physical exhaustion and he was out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	3. Of Old Friends and Hazel Eyes

SALUTE THE DEAD

Chapter Three

When Sandman woke up, he immediately realized that the hellish event that happened to go by the name 'yesterday' was, in fact, not an unpleasant dream he'd had. That was about as disappointing as his day could get, since he already expected not to be happy at all for, say, the next two months? 

Nevertheless, he managed to drag himself out of the sea of blankets that was attempting to drown him and the pitch blackness of his make-shift room as his eyes struggled to adjust, and, finally, into the blindingly white hallway of the diner. The windows must've let the light in. How long did he sleep?

He stumbled out into the main area of the diner, the area he was most comfortable in - and he saw the Venom Brothers, fully dressed, with their masks on, talking to two killjoys he didn't know. He went on edge nearly instantaneously, fully ready to bolt at any moment.

His fingers itched for his gun, lovingly named Baby - and then he realized it was not there. Of course it wasn't there. Because he was in pajamas that weren't even his. Because his clothes were in his room. And, most important of all, not only was he in pajamas with killer morning hair in front of killjoys, he had horrible raccoon eyes, he was sure of it. Raccoon eyes! 

He did nearly bolt out of there for the record, and when he'd seen the killjoys face, it wasn't just because of his embarrassing raccoon impersonation attempt. One of those killjoys he hadn't seen since he was five - and that same killjoy he recognized on the spot, so it would probably be easy for said killjoy to recognize him, and that would be bad. That would be very bad. Because there was a reason he hated the killjoys, and there was a reason he lived in the Underground, and oh no, the Venom Brothers were not allowed to know that.

But he couldn't hide forever, and he knew that, and he realistically realized that he wasn't in some high school drama from before the Helium Wars, it wasn't going to change his life and he wasn't going to be able to manage a cool avoidance of it. So, he got dressed, in his standard attire (screw Kobra's correct reasoning, he looked great and he knew it), thanked whatever God there wasn't that he'd brought a small, compact and cracked mirror and a water bottle that helped him remove and fix his eyeliner, and decided his hair was a wreck and only ran his hands through it twice. 

Time for everyone to realize why exactly he hated the Zones so much.

The best way to walk into a situation where you know you can't win, Sandman believed, was to walk in like you owned the place. And so he did. 

He didn't have a mask, unlike everyone else, because it was unnecessary in the Underground, and while it made him feel rather vulnerable and out of place, it made everyone's head turn as he strode out to the main area of the diner. 

Right into the middle of whatever the Venom Brothers, Jet Star, and Fun Ghoul had been discussing. 

Fun Ghoul had a Frankenstein mask on that hide his facial features, but Sandman remembered that stupid oversized vest, he remembered that mop of black hair that was always tricky to dye, and he remembered that stupid necklace he always wore. To be fair, they'd been best friends until he moved to the Underground.

Jet Star coughed, awkwardly, breaking the silence that had come in when Sandman entered. 'Is that...?"

Kobra answered, surprisingly. "That is. Straight from the Underground. Careful - his clothes reflect his moods."

Sandman turned and rolled his eyes at Kobra, who was almost smiling with the reaction he'd gotten, but when he turned back to Fun Ghoul, who he'd been trying to keep his focus on, the killjoy was holding his Frankenstein mask and looked positively shocked. "You look...Like you got swallowed by a crow and then thrown back up."

Fair point. Sandman was, realistically, the only one in the Zones who was stupid enough to wear all black. He noticed how the other killjoy had gone silent to watch the exchange. "And you look like you never got over that demented smiley face you drew when we were three."

"Of course I didn't, I was worse at getting over things than you were," Ghoul replied snarkily, and Sandman suddenly got more defensive, because he knew exactly what Ghoul was talking about.

"Why are you even here?" Sandman asked.

"I have a living to keep, you burn out," Ghoul answered with a roll of his eyes, "And besides, what are you doing out here? With them two, of all 'joys? Did the desert finally welcome back American Beauty's child, or was it the other way around?"

And there it was. There was why he hated the Zones so much, why he hated the killjoys, why he hated everything about them. He was born here, in the Zones. He was a Snow Storm, by their terms. He was here until he was five. Before everything in his life went haywire and he learned what was really going on.

He tensed, but no one else interrupted them. Ghoul was clearly enjoying messing with Sandman, so he was going to return the favor. "Not exactly. If anything, you could say we're having an argument. You know I like the Zones about as much as Crows Claws, don't you remember?"

That was what could put Ghoul on edge, he knew. See, the OG Killjoys, the killjoys that started the revolution, they were American Beauty, Cherry Bomb, Dr. Death Defying, and Crows Claws. They were also a band - they were Perfect Monsters. Dr. D had a sister - Crows Claws. 

Ghoul happened to be the son of Crows Claws. It was why they'd been best friends when they were little, before the clap that killed their parents and paralyzed the doctor and made Cherry Bomb go missing. They were the only two Snow Storms at the time, because no one else had been out in the desert. 

Ghoul snapped at him immediately and, wow, did he manage to get into a lot of near-death experiences in this diner. "Whatever, Pete. Shouldn't you be in the Underground, avoiding everything out here?"

"It's Mr. Sandman, actually," Sandman said, calm as crystal, "And, dear Frankie, we both know I was never half as good as you when it came to avoidance."

Now, out of the corner of his eye, Sandman could see that the other killjoys weren't just not interrupting - they were completely frozen, like they'd just been caught in the middle of stealing a secret. But Ghoul just rolled his eyes at Sandman, and they were fine again; Sandman could tell in the way he got a sock in the shoulder that did not hurt as much as it should've coming from a teenage male, meaning they were fine, on good terms.

They'd always been weird friends like that. 

The other killjoys still hadn't moved, still looked like Juvee Halls caught in the Tunnels. Ghoul poked Party and Jet, to make sure they weren't dead or something equally as weird - and they were fine again, talking and laughing shakily, animated bodies once again. 

Kobra Kid was shaken out of his stupor by a kick in the shins, courtesy of Sandman remembering the kick to the ribs he'd gotten yesterday, and he figured Kobra would react similarly to his brother and just start acting like normal and like he totally hadn't just stared into nothingness for a solid two minutes, but he didn't. Instead, he lowered his bandanna and took off those sunglasses and looked Sandman dead in the eyes - "I shouldn't know that."

"What?"

"Your - you're - y'know...I shouldn't know your name!" Kobra spat out, stumbling over his words and Sandman accidentally took a minute to marvel at that - the Kobra Kid, the Venom Brother with a reputation for miles, was stuttering, sounding like a teenager who didn't live in a post-apocalyptic world. 

Then he realized that Kobra Kid also looked like he was on the verge of full on panicking. And he stopped marveling at teenagers acting like teenagers and cocked his head in confusion. 'Why shouldn't I know your name?"

The only reason that they had codenames, both Juvee Halls and Killjoys (and Youngbloods, because he was not a Juvee Hall), was because there were cameras in the desert (most broken and out-of-use, but you could never tell), and because you couldn't exactly go shouting out actual names during supply raids, let a few Dracs hear it - then take it to their superiors and sudden;y everyone who had done so much as say 'hi' to you was dead and you were alone. That was why they had codenames; Sandman couldn't see why Kobra was freaking out. 

Kobra took a deep breath, allegedly trying and failing to steady his breathing - seriously, what was the big deal? -, then pulled Sandman in close, like he didn't feel comfortable saying it loudly,and Sandman noted with an electric urge to point out the stunning hazel of Kobra's eyes, that seemed to catch him off guard constantly. "I - I can't - you - you're a Snow Storm, aren't you?"

Well that was some melodramatic story telling. Nevertheless, Sandman nodded mutely, catching Ghoul giving him a strange look out of the corner of his eyes.

"That - yeah, that explains it. But...city names - normal names - they...you don't use them, and I shouldn't know yours, because - because for someone to know your city name you can't just trust them with your life - you have to trust them with your death, too, and I - I just shouldn't know yours," Kobra shook his head, breaking eye contact. Shame. 

Sandman took a step back, surveying Kobra. He was slouching, rubbing his forehead with his fingers, eyes darting around (Sandman didn't blame him; he did the same thing, no matter where he was, in case of attack), and blonde hair falling into his eyes - the grease or oil that had been on his face wasn't washed off, exactly, but it was less prominent now. He was mainly just wanted to ask what went through Kobra's head, the strange things that found their way through the filter his brain provided and left Sandman reeling, confused, and intrigued.

"City names mean something different to you Batt Rats, don't they?" Sandman asked instead, knowing full-well he was using the derogatory term for killjoys from the city, but right now he didn't have any other term for them. 

Kobra nodded. Sandman could practically see those invisible walls go up again in the way Kobra's shoulders were set and the steady tone of voice. "Yeah, like I said; for someone to know your city name you don't just trust them with your life, you trust them with your death...And to get rid of your city name, to stat going by the names the resistance is so famous for, it's like a clean slate, worlds away from the average, blank and bleak city rat."

"Are all killjoys as...interesting as you?" Sandman asked with somewhat of a smile, because he could sense by the change in Kobra that they were not going to be talking about city names anymore, and, quite frankly, he didn't want to. It seemed codenames went a little different for city-borns than they did for desert-borns. 

"Don't know," Kobra shrugged, turning away from Sandman, "Ask Party."

And then that conversation was over, and Sandman was so not going to ask Party, because Party intimidated him (he was not going to lie, he was rather good at scaring people for a boy with firetruck red hair and two facial expressions), and also because, newsflash, he did not like the killjoys, and he didn't not like interacting with them when he didn't have to, and he didn't like their signature arrogance and loudness and the whole package.

Not that he'd forgotten any of that while talking with Kobra, of course. He was just curious about a few things. Obviously.

-

After Sandman retreated back to his make-shift bedroom without anymore conversations with his childhood best friend, his childhood best friend's new best friend, the pretty strange boy, or the pretty strange boy's intimidating brother, a few things happened, and he wanted to know how they happened,but wasn't going to ask because everything was long and convoluted with killjoys:

Jet Star (the one who'd been with Ghoul, he'd learned) had talked it out with Party and was going to stay with them for a night or so while the Zones market out in Zone 2 was going on so they could shop, on the condition that Jet and Ghoul get and pay for a few things that Party, Kobra, and maybe him wanted. 

Fun Ghoul point blank refused to stay, and Sandman wondered if it was because of him or if it had anything to do with the look he gave Party every time they made eye contact. 

Party Poison threw a hissy fit about something or other (Sandman didn't know; remember, he was hidden in his make-shift room), and last Sandman heard he was storming out of the diner.

And to top it all off, he had no idea if Kobra Kid was going through a crisis, because he'd heard about 0 things pertaining to Kobra throughout the three hours he hid in his room. 

Yay. Did he mention how much he hated the Zones? Has he mentioned before the ridiculousness of killjoys before? If he hadn't, he'd be concerned.

But eventually he did get tired of sitting in the same position, and with the fact that he was suffocating of heat since apparently the radiation-filled hellhole that was fondly referred to as the Zones decided it was going to make people die of heat during the day and then freeze their corpses at night, he decided to come out of hiding.

The diner, in the blinding light of midday, somehow still managed to give off that feeling Sandman had when he had first gotten here; it felt like it was a place for lost souls, for dying pleas, for festering rebellions, for stories to start and stories to end. He could see the dust particles in the air, and looking around at the empty booths and torn bar stools, he saw something.

The shadows in the day were much sharper than when he was here at dusk; the brightest light, of course, cast the blackest shadows, but somehow this seemed very important when Sandman thought of it. It was important. Somehow. It had something to do with the feeling this diner gave; the harder you fight the harder you fall, like the shadows at noon, and yet if you don't fight hard enough, the fall out isn't even worth the rewards because they're dim, barely dark; the shadows at dusk. 

Jeez, the Zones were driving him crazy.

He wandered around longer, with no sign of the Kobra Kid or Jet Star, until he came across what he assumed was the door to the garage - it wasn't really a garage, but more of a flimsy roof and a concrete wall -, and found that there was both a Jet Star and a Kobra Kid there.

Kobra was crouching next to his prized motorbike, seemingly inspecting the paint or engine or something equally as mechanic-y, and Jet Star was sitting on a stool that seemed it had had better days, inspecting what seemed to be a glove with a lot of stuff covering it. 

Neither of them looked up when Sandman entered, but they seemed to be absorbed in what they were doing so Sandman didn't take it personally. 

"So what's a crash queen?" The silence was beginning to irritate him; he couldn't help but break it. 

Kobra looked like he was shocked out of his task, staring at Sandman with a look akin to a startled animal - Jet Star, on the other hand, looked up and out of the impressive 'fro he had going on, giving Sandman an almost-curious look.

"You don't know what a crash queen is?" Jet Star asked, eventually, after Sandman was starting to get uncomfortable with, again, silence.

Sandman nodded 'no' - he honestly didn't know what it meant, and he' been called one a multitude of times in the last two days, and now dead silence prompted him to know if he'd been insulted or not.

Jet Star started to explain, but Kobra cut him off before he could even get a syllable out. "Crash Queens are used in one of two ways - the first way, is when killjoys just seem born to fail. They never win, they crash, and they're the best at it. And the other one is the one you are - arrogant, cocky, a flirt, got a reputation."

"I'm not cocky," Sandman said immediately, defensively crossing his arms across his chest as he went to go stand next to Kobra. "And I'm not a flirt."

"Yeah?" Jet Star mused, "'Cause your reputation says otherwise. Weren't you with Dr. Benzedrine?"

"I thought Benzedrine had something going on with Rose Gold." How did Kobra manage to talk fast enough to where Sandman could barely manage to comprehend what was said let alone try to figure out a response to it?

"Benzedrine and I were never and will never be together!" Sandman snapped before Jet could continue the conversation even further. And what he said was true - they would never be. He wasn't Benze's sloppy seconds. He hadn't been in his right mind and Benze had been going insane from grief and...they just weren't, no matter what the past said . "And he did. Have a thing for Rose Gold, I mean."

Jet gave a small "oh" and shrugged; Kobra didn't give much of a reaction at all and went back to inspecting his bike.

So much for conversation. He was going to go insane if this was how the next two months went by, and that was almost a guarantee. Maybe Party was more talkative than Kobra. But then again, Party Poison wasn't exactly his favorite person right now. Ugh. When was anything exciting going to happen? He allows heard stories of the amazing and unbelievable and crazy things that happened in the desert and this was just...boring. Boring and it let him sink alone into his thoghts, and he didn't like that - he'd already made theories about basic science - shadows!

Dear Destroya, he hated the Zones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Always appreciated!


	4. Of Blankets and History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandman just wanted to return the blankets, okay?
> 
> But now he's in Zone Two with his childhood best friend and a ghost on his shoulders. What the Hell?

One thing Sandman missed about the Underground: consistency. At least there he had somewhat of a schedule, a daily routine. But here, out in the Desert? He never knew what he was going to do at any given point in time, and he hated that, too.

It'd been a week since the conversation with Benze; some days he spet his time in his makeshift room and didn't speak a word to any soul, some days he was in everyone's business wanting somethig to do, and about two days ago he'd gone out to Zone Six with Kobra if only for a chane in scenery, and then proceeded to get shot at.

At least now he knew Kobra was an excellent shot (though he muttered to himself a lot in a fight). But, you know, he would've loved to figure that out when he wasn't getting shot at and Kobra wasn't supposed to be driving his beautiful death trap. 

His room was basically his home now, considering he hadn't left it since they got back form Zone Six. It was nearing nighttime now, and while a week ago he would've been dying from the freezing temperatures, he was beginning to get used to the desert's constant temperature changes like Party and Kobra's constant mood swings.

He only left so he could find Kobra and return a few of the blankets he'd been given (yes, he really oly spoke to Kobra. Party still hated him and never hesitated to mock and/or threaten him), but of course nothing was that simple, was it?

It was a commotion in the front of the diner that caught his attention - the telltale sign of company, he'd learned, was one of the Venom Brothers either tapping their leg against the tiles or their fingers against the counter. It seemed they did it subconscously too, strangely enough. 

Then he saw Ghoul's beat-up motorbike outside, and realized, oh, right, he exists. And his partner was here, probably in the garage.

"He's still here?"

The only reason Sandman snapped to attention at that was because it was very clearly directed toward him - well, more about him, but still. 

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Ghoul. And he can hear you."

"Really? Never would've guessed with that ego shoved into your brain!" Party said sarcastically, intervening before Ghoul could even open his mouth to respond. Typical Party Poison. 

Sandman didn't even have the energy to bear his teeth. This was getting old. Party had accepted Benze's terms; now he needed to get with the program he set. What the Hell did Sandman do besides prefer the Underground, anyway? "Funny coming from you. You know where Kobra is?"

Party sent him a dirty look - it seemed to be solely reserved for Sandman and Power Pup, apparently -, but didn't retaliate, for once in his goddamn life. "Why"

"Uh, hello?" Sandman waved around the pile of blankets in his hands. "Kinda trying to give these back?"

Party just nodded toward the kitchen, and while Sandman was still tempted to say 'I could've guessed' and moderately wanted to strangle him for his smugness and unspoken opinion that Sandman was less than dirt, he didn't. It was their most civil interaction yet.

It was probably because Ghoul was there, watching the conversation silently. 

That was another thing about killjoys, Sandman thought as he ventured to the back of the diner to find the blond-haired motorbaby, while Undergrounders assumed friend before foe and were only necessarily dangerous when the situation called for it, killjoys were the opposite.

They watched what they needed too with cold calculation, figuring their odds or the best way to win, and then they became something more...wild, feral, dangerous. And they smirked or grinned their way through it, through the threats in their words, through the numerous greetings of death. Through it all, they were more like predators than rebels, less organized revolution and more impulsive crimes of passion and hatred.

It was one thing that he could never forget, no matter how much he ever tried to - everyone had the possibility to be dangerous. It was one thing his mother had taught him out here in this grim wasteland with colorful demons as it's occupants. Everyone was dangerous.

He almost laughed at the irony of his thoughts when he finally found Kobra - sitting against the door of the walk-in-freezer-turned bedroom. Kobra was drawing on his ray gun, black Sharpie popping against the yellow-and-red design that Sandman couldn't see very well.

Without looking up, Kobra asked, "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to return these blankets..." Sandman muttered - a kind of silence always seemed to encase Kobra, that made you want to spill everything and nothing, and that you waited for him to talk before you said anything, and if you said anything, it'd better be worth his time.

It was the exact opposite of Party, who was always surrounded by some type of noise - usually music, somehow making his firetruck ed hair pop, his confidence contagious; snark and noise were just in his nature. 

Oh yeah, he was definitely going crazy. 

Kobra nodded mutely, returning Sandman to the physical world at hand.

"Party's dealing with Ghoul and we don't get along so well, so...Where do I put these?" There it was. The unnecessary information Sandman always felt inclined to add, if only because he wondered why Kobra didn't answer. If Kobra was ever interrogated, he'd accidentally make the interrogator speak his darkest secrets before getting through the opening page of questions.

"Behind me; they're mine," Kobra said, still not looking up, just drawing - or more likely retracing, because the sand had a tendency to make colors fade. 

Sandman would know. His poor black clothing was already looking more of an ugly grayish brown than black. 

"O-kay..." Sandman trailed off, waiting for Kobra to move so he could actually put the blankets were he was told too.

It took Kobra a minute to realize that was what he was waiting for, but he stood and holstered his ray gun before Sandman could see the design. "Finally getting used to the Zones, crash queen?"

Ah, there was the killjoy part of him back. Sandman rolled his eyes, opening the door on loud, rusty hinges and then hiding a frown. Kobra hadn't been lying about them being his blankets, considering there were none in here. "Getting used to Party's...behavior, more like it. What made Ghoul storm off a while ago anyway?"

"Party being Party," Kobra shrugged, leaning against the doorway. "He has a habit of pissing people off. Usually after sleeping with them, too, so."

"Why's Ghoul back?" Sandman asked, instead of asking the history there. Mainly because he didn't really want to know. 

"Well, his partner is here. I figure Ghoul at least wants him back if nothing else." 

Well, Sandman felt dumb. Of course that was why Ghoul was back - he'd figured this out earlier and apparently it had slipped his mind, somehow. How he managed to forget that, he had no idea. "Er - uh- yeah. Anyway, I'm gonna...go now..."

Kobra nodded, and kept his silence unbroken. Dear Destroya, how were Party and Kobra even brothers? Sometimes he questioned it, if only because of the silence versus the noise. 

Sandman awkwardly walked off, once again feeling moderately stupid. To be fair, you couldn't exactly blame him. If you tried to have a conversation and the person you were talking to acted like he was deaf, you'd feel stupid too.

Ghoul and Party were still up front, but Jet Star was with them this time, and considering the fact that Ghoul looked even more agitated this time around Sandman decided he was going to ignore them.

Of course, it was at that moment that Ghoul's eyes snapped toward his - and Sandman realized he was not going to have a choice in the matter of ignoring them. He would've internally sighed had Ghoul's glare not been burning into his soul. "Hey, Mr. Sandman - wanna go for a drive?"

Ghoul sounded mocking, of course he sounded mocking, because Ghoul was used to him when he was a kid and there was a notorious rivalry between Juvee Halls and Killjoys that Sandman completely understood. Sandman shook his head, black air falling into his eyes - he'd noted that, for some reason or another, everyone else really hated the black hair, but he rather hated them, so. "Why would I ever want to go on a drive with you?"

"Because Party tells me you'e been coped up for a while and Jet still has work to do," Ghoul said calmly, despite the fact that he constantly looked like he wanted to ghost someone and a few mere seconds ago he looked like he really, really wanted that someone to be Party Poison. 

"I went out to Zone Six yesterday," Sandman retaliated, crossing his arms. He was not coped up and, one, even if he was Party-freaking-Poison had no reason to complain about it, and two, even if he as (which he was not) he was not going to go on a drive with Fun Ghoul, of all people. "And I'm not going anywhere with Fun Ghoul."

_

Sandman grimaced and crossed his arms, stubbornly refusing to get on the motorbike. He'd seen Kobra drive - experienced Kobra's bike skills - and it was reckless, and impulsive, and his bike was still in pristine condition. 

Ghoul was, well, Ghoul, and his was not in pristine condition. It was rather beat-up, actually, which made Sandman question why he'd ever agreed to this in the first place.

Then he remembered that it was because Kobra had walked into the front room, threw his black ray gun at him, and said, "You're going."

So apparently now he was going; where he didn't know, just that it was supposed to be on a motorbike with Ghoul and that was not a life-risk he really wanted to take now. The grin Ghoul was giving him told him he was going to take it anyway, regardless of his bickering and complaints. 

Ghoul just stared at him until he complied and hopped onto the bike, behind Ghoul, begrudgingly wrapping his arms around the other killjoys waist. At this point he knew how they rode and he was willing to deal with the lude comments if it meant not dying. 

But Ghoul didn't make any comments and Sandman didn't say anything. It seemed rather out-of-character for Ghoul, who was always making comments about everything. But then again, what did Sandman know? Especially about a boy he knew when he was five and knew the reputation of. 

Sandman didn't really know where they were driving - Ghoul seemed to be going random directions, though this was a place that could make you think up was left. All the sand dunes and dirt looked the same to him.

Occasionally he saw the cracked pavement signs of a road - the only road that was out here, or at least the only one that had survived the Helium Wars enough for the killjoys to name it. Route Guano, or the Getaway Mile, and Sandman belatedly realized that Ghoul was weaving in zig zags around it.

Figured. Paranoid killjoys were only paranoid because of the amount of times they'd encountered Draculoids unexpectedly, as Sandman had learned a little while ago.

The scenery changed again, with more cracking buildings and less complete rubble; it was quite a sight, and the only way Sandman recognized they were now in Zone Two.

What was out here that Ghoul would want to see? Or take Sandman to see, because Ghoul definitely didn't seemed hyped like Sandman remembered from all those years ago. In fact, he seemed rather grim, especially for the supposed 'desert's bomb child'. 

"Where are you taking me..?" Sandman muttered, though he knew that Ghoul couldn't hear him, not with the wind and the helmet that Sandman was wearing - it was Kobra's, the one with GOOD LUCK emblazoned on the front he'd been wearing when they'd first met -. Ghoul really should've been wearing a helmet too; he drove exactly like Kobra Kid. 

It was then that he saw the large building coming into view - what Zone Two was known for. But he never thought Ghoul would take him here. The Warehouse, he one place that Tumbleweeds and Zonerunners worked together; it stored most of the clothing the desert had to offer that hadn't been claimed, spray paint, glitter, masks,; you name it, it was there.

The only reason BLI had never even attempted to raid the place was because it was better protected than even the most high-security high rise in Battery City. It was always a bustle of activity, Tumbleweeds and Zonerunners skating in and out with colorful items in their arms, never empty. 

Of course, some said it was because BLI couldn't get close. Some said the Phoenix Witch - the Zones favored deity, though Sandman wasn't sure where his beliefs lay - protected the Warehouse, if only because of what was outside it.

The Mailbox. 

And suddenly Sandman understood why Ghoul wasn't making comments and seemed grim. He wasn't taking Sandman to the Warehouse; he was taking him to the Mailbox.

It was a place of worship in the Zones, a place to honor the dead. Zone lore said the Phoenix Witch was a guide for the newly dead, Juvee Halls and Killjoys alike. But she had to know who she was guiding; that's why, at the Mailbox, you left the mask and gun of the killjoy or Hall that was ghosted, so the Witch knew who they were.

It was considered the worst fate for a killjoys name to not be remembered. Even if it was just by their crew, one or two individuals, they were still known, still remembered.

Sandman hadn't thought about the Mailbox in months, and dully, as he watched the colorful old mailbox come into view, starkly contrasting the grimy metal building on it's last legs behind it, he questioned why. He doubted her mask and gun was still here. It'd been years ago.

He wondered if Benze had come out to the Mailbox, so far out of his comfort Zone, to put Rose Gold's mask and gun, so the Witch could guide him, too. Then he remembered Rose Gold had been ghosted BECAUSE he'd come out to the Zones, and there was no way Benze would risk that. Did the Witch know who she was guiding at all?

Ghoul stopped, suddenly, the brakes screeching and sand splaying everywhere from the sudden turn Ghoul had taken instead of actually stopping like he should have. Sandman's vision took a moment to adjust but righted itself quickly enough as Ghoul killed the engine and waited for Sandman to get the hint and jump off. 

He did, taking off the helmet immediately afterwards and staring like a bumbling idiot at the bright hellscape that was fondly called the Zones. The Mailbox was bright as ever about twenty feet in front of him, despite no one having brought paint to it ever since it was first dyed in killjoy chaos decades ago. 

"I thought you might want to come visit," Ghoul said behind him, before walking ahead of Sandman with windblown hair and sporting red cheeks and a red nose. It was quieter than Ghoul usually was, but then again, hopefully he'd changed in the twelve years they'd been apart. 

Suddenly, Sandman was hit with a wave of longing, realized that he had missed this place, why hadn't he visited? This was the last place he had ever even had a piece of his mother, and he hadn't visited. So much for wishing he was a good son. A son that didn't run away from his problems, from the Desert.

He didn't say any of this out loud, only followed behind Ghoul. Not quite as silently, because he still hadn't mastered the art of actually walking in the desert instead of just trudging through sand like it was about to make him sink. 

"They're still here," Ghoul continued, like he hadn't had a five minute pause as they walked over to the Mailbox. He was standing on the opposite side as Sandman, so Sandman quickly followed suit and moved.

Ghoul was right. They were still here. 'They' being the colorful masks and guns that hadn't been used in twelve years, that were taken off still-warm bodies by shell-shocked children and a newly crippled man. The colors hadn't even faded.

Sleek feathers were still pitch black, like they hadn't been crudely attached to a Mailbox for the last decade, and the pointed crow beak that completed the mask of Crows Claws was still there, pristine, hung on a hook above a sleek black ray gun, with gold accenting it's edges, not a speck of sand on the material despite the circumstances. 

But what caught the attention of Sandman's eyes was the mask and gun next to it. The bright pop of a basic hot pink mask, with blood red rose drawings bursting out of the mold on the left side and eye; on the right, it was a ghoulish black-and-white, making it appear as though the eye was sunk and the wearer a skeleton. The gun underneath it was half black and half red, the only consistency being the yellow that ran across both sides in stripes with the words 'American Beauty' in calligraphy on the barrel.

His mother's mask. His mother's gun. It seemed the colors were even more vibrant than he remembered, though that must've been wrong. 

He never liked thinking of how he found his mother, only her memories, and these - this - this memorial, reminded him of that. It reminded him he was lucky to have even had a mask and gun to bring to the Mailbox. Crows Claws and American Beauty died in the fight; Dr. Death Defying was crippled; and Cherry Bomb? Well, Dr. D had seen her take a shot to the stomach. But there was no body. No mask or gun to take to the Witch. Maybe not even a soul left, because Destroya knew Battery City was hellbent on destroying those, too.

Sandman snapped out of his trance, told himself to stop recalling that, to stop thinking grimly. He saw that Ghoul was still staring, too, lost in his own thoughts.

He realized that he had run away. He'd ran away from his best friend at the time, who was grieving just as much as him. He'd ran away from the only one left to tell the story of his mother. He'd ran away from the color she had so valiantly fought for, now wore the black-and-white in some effort to fight the same battle. Ran away from her, really.

He'd chosen to leave the Desert, let the darkness of the Underground leach the color from his veins. He liked the Underground. He really did. It felt like home, which he couldn't say for the Zones...though that was because his mother had felt like home and she'd been brutally stripped away from him, and Benzedrine also felt like home; so did Young Detonator and Phoenix Menace. 

Now he was starting to realize - or remember, actually - why the killjoys hated his hair color, the black, the outfit that was nearly going to kill him via heatstroke soon. The desert was all about color - his mother had been all about color. You had to take one look at her mask and gun and outfit in general to figure that out. 

Hesitantly, but surely, almost in a daze, he reached his hand out. He wasn't sure what he was doing, but it felt right. The mask that had stuck to the side of this Mailbox through sand storms and firefights...It fell into his hand the second he touched it. The ray gun fell just as easily too, but the moment it did he jolted back, confused as to what he was doing.

He saw Ghoul looking at him knowingly, having stopped staring at the remembrance of his own mother. "The Phoenix Witch seems to be telling you something."

Sandman looked from the gun and mask in his hands to Ghoul, and back to the objects. He wasn't sure why he grabbed them, exactly, except that it had felt right at the time. Did he even believe in the Phoenix Witch? He still wasn't sure, but Ghoul very clearly did, and...Well, even if she did exist, then what was she trying to tell him?

Did it have anything to do with the color he so closely associated with a dead woman? Why were the roses and skeletal designs calling out to him?

"I - I - Let's...Let's go to the Warehouse, okay?" Sandman mumbled, clutching the mask tightly in his hands and throwing out his own ray gun as to holster the black-and-red one. 

Ghoul simply nodded, and the two made their way in silence to the imposing old metal heap in front of them. The other ravenette didn't ask questions, which Sandman was grateful for - because he didn't have any idea as why he wanted to go there. 

A thought came, unbidden, as Ghoul opened the screeching metal door; the reason the killjoys seemed to hate Sandman's hair and not Ghoul's, considering they both had it dyed black, was because, 1) Ghoul was more intimidating than him and a Snow Storm, and 2) If anyone asked, Sandman was sure Ghoul had no problem disclosing his parentage. And Crows Claws entire design was black and gold, solely because it was like a big middle finger up to BLI. It was their colors. BLI didn't own it.

Sandman didn't stop thinking as he wandered, barely aware of his hands as they picked up clothes and set them down, seemingly knowing exactly what he was getting even though in his head he was only browsing. 

It was about an hour later when he saw Ghoul again, who was the one to snap him out of his little trance. "What, finally realizing you're gonna die in that bad black?"

"Huh?" Sandman asked, then looked down to find what he was holding - a paint-splattered black leather jacket, bright red jeans, new boots, red gloves and - and pink hair dye. He blinked, in moderate surprise. Ghoul seemed amused. "I - Uh - yeah?"

But even as he said it in confusion, he realized that it felt right. He was changing his look. These were his colors now, like they'd been his mother's, and it was time he lived up to his legacy. The son of American Beauty. 

But he wasn't an American Beauty. He was more like...more like an American Psycho, he supposed, considering all of this was on a whim, by a little voice in his head that said so. And it matched his mother's name, in a way.

'Well, let's go dye your hair, then, crash queen," Ghoul grinned, getting that ridiculous energy he always had back, snapping the hair dye out of Sandman's hands.  
_

A decent amount of time later (because the Zones did not keep track of the time, apparently), Sandman emerged from the bathroom, clad in pant-splattered black, red, and pink, with his mother's mask hiding his brown eyes.

He hadn't expected to, but he actually rather liked the entire ensemble. It made him feel way closer to his mother than he ever expected to, wearing her mask and practically hearing her voice, those speeches she would always give in his ears, about what he could do to help.

"Ghoul?" He asked hesitantly, because Ghoul was mostly just staring at him. "What is it?"

"You look..." Ghoul started slowly, tapping his fingers against his leg. "You look like you belong in the Desert. Finally coming home?"

"Forced to," Sandman shrugged, though he was practically beaming. He liked looking like he belonged somewhere again. Because, really, he did belong in the Underground - but he talked too much like a killjoy to fit in as much as he liked. "And - and...I think I'll pick a new name, to mark the occasion."

"Yeah?" Ghoul asked, quirking a brow, looking much less shell-shocked and much more exasperated. As things should be. 

"Yeah. To honor my mom. I like...I think I'll go by American Psycho."

"Welcome to the Zones, American Psycho," Ghoul grinned, "Oh, man, I can't wait to see how Party and Kobra react!"

Sandman - no, no, Psycho - may start liking the Zones yet, he thought.


	5. Of Halos And Hand-Holding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one particularly notices Psycho's appearance, including him; Party Poison might be an angel, and Kobra Kid needs...well, he needs someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who actually got off her ass and wrote? This girl! Sorry for the wait, but ahh, I've been procrastinating lately.

The Zones were chaos. The sun scorched the burning sand, made you think the desert never ended. When you found someone, it was almost always another killjoy, a living embodiment of what it meant to be free - loud and colorful and, again, chaotic.

Mr. Sandman had always been a little out of place in the Underground, with their ever-constant mentality of using rationality and planned raids to bring BLI down. He had been born in the Desert, after all, and even moving away so little some chaos clung to his mind.

But American Psycho? American Psycho was a Snow Storm, thrived in the chaos of the desert and proudly wore the mask his mother once wore, and he was determined to give it justice. He couldn't hide in the Underground, at least not while Benzedrine had him stationed out here because of another petty argument.

Plus, the Zones felt a lot more welcoming when you weren't wearing all black, and with black hair. 

"Let's get a move on, 'Hall," Ghoul snapped in his face, pushing his own greasy black bangs out of his face. That was still one thing Psycho appreciated about the Underground: they still had hygiene. Killjoys...The last time they showered was probably before they left the city, and some had never even been in the city.

Psycho gave him a decently not-hostile slug on the arm, rolling his eyes, and precariously balancing Kobra's GOOD LUCK helmet under his arm, not quite willing to go back and face the Venom Brothers right yet. He wanted to at least enjoy having a new identity before Party Poison gave him shit about something, be it his mother's mask or saying how an Undergrounder could never be a Killjoy, "I'm a Youngblood, I told you."

"Right, right," Ghoul snickered, and seemed to sense that Psycho didn't want to go back yet, because they were walking slowly toward the Mailbox - toward Ghoul's bike. "I forget. You're a special brand of strange."

"Funny coming from you," Psycho said, rolling his eyes. "You're a bombmaker who keeps his hair black and doesn't fawn over Party Poison like I hear half this desert does."

Ghoul sighed, dramatically. Neither of them knew how to do anything without theatricality, though Psycho had started to wonder if one particular city-born had more dramatics than them both. (He stole them from his brother, he was sure). "Trust me, Party is...Not very fun to work with. He's got a history, too, from before they became the Venom Brothers."

Psycho quirked a brow, interested already. He stopped walking, and Ghoul seemed to have the same idea. The latter looked apprehensive of sharing the story. 

But Ghoul had never really been able to keep things from Psycho, even when they were kids to the one time they were twelve and Ghoul had needed to go to the Underground to pick up supplies or whatever and they'd talked for hours, only slightly tinged with distrust and bitterness. It was why their first meeting out in the 'big bad desert' had gone from taunting to casual. "If you ever have to go to The Castle...If you find the dingyest, darkest corners, they whisper. Now, they whisper about the two brothers, about how they might just bring BLI down by themselves from anger. But they used to whisper different things about Party. They'd call 'im a pornodroid and cheap, and they'd call his brother the best racer the Zones had ever seen. They shared the spotlight in a strange, morbid and twisted way before they got over themselves and started taking names."

Ghoul started walking again, except this time he set a brisk pace (why, Psycho didn't know, since they both had short legs); Psycho could sense Ghoul was not looking for commentary on the story. Psycho didn't feel inclined to give it.

The helmet almost tumbled out of his grasp as he struggled to catch up to Ghoul, who didn't look particularly against the idea of leaving Psycho behind should he take too long. The helmet - Kobra. Best racer in the Zones, huh?

Psycho had never been into racing too much, since he got all the carbons he needed from supply raids and trading info,so he'd never seen the appeal. Kobra, though - Kobra's racing was how they met. It must be important to the kid, then. He supposed he could see why if you weren't racing for the money. The wind, the flying feeling, the adrenaline, the unsure feeling of just how much your body can take before you make a mistake and find yourself on the ground, unconscious or dead.

Basically, it was a killjoy's wet dream, and maybe that wasn't the best thought to have when putting on someone (who doesn't even like you) else's helmet and throwing his leg over the side of Ghoul's bike. Then again, killjoys were lude, loud, and obnoxious. They didn't care about when the right time to have a certain thought.

Psycho held on to Ghoul's waist, moderately terrified he was going to die again,

This time, Ghoul made comments. Psycho reciprocated by punching him in the ribs a few times.

~

Psycho would be lying if he said he wasn't grateful to the Witch when they finally made it back to the diner and he was able to slide off that stupid death contraption with a stupid, brain-got-melted-by-the-sun killjoy. Ghoul took his sweet time shutting the engine off -

\- And then, suddenly, Psycho would've preferred it if Ghoul had kept it on, and they were still streaking their way through Zone 3, because now he heard voices.

And no, no they weren't in his head, though that was the concerning part. Psycho looked over to Ghoul - who was standing next to his bike, now -, and they both gave each other wide eyes.

Psycho had never heard Kobra Kid yell. Hell, he barely heard the kid as it was. But here they were, standing a few feet away from the diner's entry doors, broken glass in the sand, just not quite overlooking into the booth area, the sun about to set, with the muffled sound of what was undoubtedly an argument.

It was a shame neither Psycho nor Ghoul had plans of leaving it be, curious as they were. 

Silently, they both crept forward, closer to the doors, but mostly to look through the diner windows - some of which had been blown out very, very long ago, hence the broken glass in the sand -. The pair of brothers weren't in the booth area, but the shouting could still be heard, but it was too muffled for some reason for Psycho to understand. 

Ghoul looked like he was thanking every deity he knew that the bell that used to signify when someone was entering had long since not worked when he opened the door. Mercifully, it was silent. 

Psycho felt out of place, but curious, and he followed Ghoul's lead, sitting on the bar stools in front of the counter casually, like they couldn't hear arguing. He found that he could much better.

They were arguing about Party - Party doing something to upset Kobra, and Kobra was saying something about how promised he wouldn't do it again, don't you remember what happened last time? And Party was denying it, whatever 'it' was.

Then things got quieter, to Ghoul and Psycho's chagrin. Quiet was concerning, judging by the look on Ghoul's face.

The only part of the scuffle Psycho heard crystal clear was Party, storming out of one of the back rooms and out the door, throwing scathing words over his shoulder as his firetruck red hair blended with the low sun, making almost a fiery halo. "And, you know what, Kobra? At least I realized my brother was long gone!"

Psycho suddenly understood where the 'Venom' in 'Venom Brothers' came from, and it wasn't just from firefights. He and Ghoul made eye contact again, startled, neither sure quite what to do. 

The garage door creaked open, snapping the pair out of what had at some point turned into a staring contest. They both saw a mob of wild brown curls peaking through the door, looking around.

"Jet!" Ghoul grinned, sliding off the stool and going over to hug his companion. Ghoul seemed the touchy-feely type, always had been, but Psycho was starting to notice it was really only around who he was particularly comfortable with. I.E. Jet. "Did you seriously have to listen to that whole thing?"

"They've basically been arguing since you guys left," Jet deadpanned, patting Ghoul affectionately on the back, and gently pushing him away. "Started fucking with whatever in the garage until it just got dead silent."

"Party stormed off," Psycho spoke up, for the first time, still across the room from the two. Jet seemed a little surprised to see him there, and it took a minute, honest to the Witch - it was probably because of the whole, hot pink hair and bright red jeans thing. You know, considering that had happened today and Psycho felt dumb that he'd forgotten. "And, er, I think I'm going by American Psycho now."

Jet simply nodded, in acknowledgement of the both things Psycho had said. "Cool. I like the jacket. I'm gonna go talk some sense into Party. You wanna come with, Ghoulie?"

Ghoul rolled his eyes at the nickname, but Psycho could see the smile clear as day from across the room. Jet Star seemed to have that effect on people, and it was almost the perfect off set to the snark and temper Ghoul had been born with. Best friends and crew mates indeed. "Yeah, let's go find us a crash queen."

They seemingly forgot about Psycho sitting there, and to be perfectly honest maybe that was a good thing. He knew Party had been the one to storm out in his angelic rage, but there was also Kobra, and at least Young Detonator and Alley Phoenix had taken to taking turns between comforting Benze and Psycho (Sandman? He was getting confused as to what the hell he referred to himself as in the past tense) after one of their increasingly more common arguments. 

Besides, Kobra's voice had seemed pretty distraught, from what he'd heard, but from what he'd heard of Kobra's reputation he thought he should probably give him a while to cool off, calm down before attempting to console.

The rather alarming sound of something hitting the wall made Psycho want to just hold him and shush him until he fell asleep, which was an odd feeling to have but it was one he had often, but he managed to refrain and instead went back to his own room. It was strange when it wasn't piled high with a million different blankets, but he'd given them back and besides, he was pretty sure Kobra had been sleeping without blankets for a time.

For a while, even in the dark of his make-shift room when the door was closed and the temperature was steadily dropping just as the sun did, he wa staring at his mother's - at his? - mask. The last time he'd been able to stand looking at it before today had been years ago, when she was still alive. Some nights he'd slunk out of the Underground to go to the Mailbox, but he'd only ever stared at the artwork and Crows Claws' mask, because he didn't want to look at his own mother's legacy.

The mask was pretty. He couldn't quite see it very well, but to touch it was more intricate than he'd realized. On one side it was basic, like the one Party Poison was known for wearing, though a ghoulish black and white. The psycho side, his side of the mask, he felt. The other side, like he'd said before, was a basic hot pink, but roses in the same material had been added to the sides of the mask, blood red paint dried and cracking, forming a trail of roses down his cheek when he was wearing it. There were small gemstones, too, around the eye that he hadn't noticed. He missed her.

He didn't know how long he spent staring at it, going over the memories of his mom and her blurry face he was starting to forget. It seemed important, in that moment, that he remember every detail about her - and, unbidden, he wondered what her advice for his current situation would be.

To be stuck in the Desert he'd run from but was now starting to find his space in, or go back to the Underground, dark, muted colors and a best friend who was still mourning, still grieving, still too unstable? He had no answer, and one was not provided from his reminisce.

Then, another question, this one more manageable, more tangible in his mind's eye because it was right in front of him. Should he go talk to Kobra? Even if Kobra had made it clear before he didn't particularly like Psycho and some of the things he said made Psycho's head spin?

He figured his mom would say something along the lines of, 'Well, you wouldn't be talking to him to understand him, you'd be talking to him to comfort him, it doesn't matter if he makes you think too much', which sounded about right, and he should really go check on the other 'joy, because it'd been silent for a while now. He'd noticed Kobra liked silence, but still, brooding in your thoughts after an argument was never a good idea and no one should ever try it. 

He creaked open the door, and found the diner cast in long shadows, with a few flickering light bulbs that kept it decently lit. He didn't know where they'd found the working light bulbs or how they managed to get electricity in this place, but questioning menial things like that wasn't his task right now.

He knew the way to Kobra's room, of course, because he wasn't the idiot who didn't learn their surroundings after being somewhere for more than four hours. He found it strange Kobra slept there, if only because Party had taken to the much more accessible, much for open storage room. But Psycho couldn't judge, he supposed.

The door was closed. Psycho knocked, but didn't receive an answer, so obviously his first thought was to see if the door was unlocked -which was dumb, because the locks on all these doors had stopped working about as long ago as the whole 'windows getting trashed' thing.

And he heard screaming. 

Psycho blinked quickly and his eyes darted around, looking for a threat more out of instinct than practicality or logic. But, as his vision adjusted to how much darker it was in Kobra's room (even with small rays of light sneaking in), all he saw was Kobra, and Kobra didn't look very good.

In fact, Psycho stood there a little dumbfounded, unsure of what to do, because Kobra was crying, his hair was stuck to his face and he was thrashing around, one limb or another accidentally hitting something and it -

Kobra was asleep. 

Benze didn't have night terrors. Detonator didn't have night terrors. Alley Phoenix didn't have night terrors. Psycho had only ever heard of people who did, people who when it was particularly bad avoided sleep at all cost and lied about how they broke their wrist.

He didn't know what to do, and to say seeing Kobra scared like that scared him would be an understatement. It was terrifying,

He took a shaky step forward, and another and another until he was right next to Kobra's bed, catching the wrist that was about to hit the wall. Kobra was covered in a cold sweat, and under his breath Psycho thought he was calling out for someone, someone, but it wasn't Party. Sounded like it started with G, or maybe that was all he was mumbling.

Psycho didn't try to wake him up, not at first, because he didn't know if that was a good idea or not and he didn't know if night terrors were like sleep walking and it was bad to wake the person up (again, no prior experience), but he did pin Kobra's arms down so he didn't break anything and hesitantly pushed his hair out of his face, whispering soothing nothings and lullabies he hadn't heard years and he didn't know if any of it was helping, because Kobra was still crying and his body was trying to move and hit out.

Halting his mumbling, Psycho started shaking his shoulder, gently, trying to wake him up, trying to get him out of his head and out of whatever dream or memory or nightmare he was having. Maybe not even for Kobra's sake. Maybe because it scared Psycho to see Kobra like that.

It went from gently shaking his shoulder to pretty forcefully, and Psycho was about to just give up and maybe cry with him when his wrist was grabbed - and it was Kobra, looking at him with feral eyes, darting, scanning, almost like an animal, almost like prey.

"I - er - Kobra. Are you - are you - well, that's a stupid question, I mean - I mean...are you going to be alright?" Psycho stuttered, shaking his head a little, his now pink hair falling into his face.

Kobra didn't answer for a long time. He didn't let go of Psycho's wrist (if anything, tightened his grasp), and slowly, slowly, the feral look in his eyes left, until he was just intently staring at Psycho; even in the dim light, Psycho noted Kobra's eyes were hazel, and a nice hazel at that when it didn't look like he was about to murder someone.

"Are you gonna be alright?" He asked again, coaxing gently, turning his wrist and moving Kobra's hand to his, and Kobra squeezed his palm, shutting his eyes and breathing heavy.

Kobra nodded, slowly, and still neglected to say anything, but it was acknowledgement and that was a step up. Baby steps, baby steps. He didn't move his hand away, holding on like he was scared either he or Psycho was going to fade away and he needed proof they were both real, both there, both tangible. 

Psycho didn't know what else to say, so he said nothing, and Kobra let him. Never told him to get out or to not mention it to anyone, never let go of his hand, never opened his eyes from where thy were squeezed shut. 

Psycho's hand was starting to hurt, but he realized it was what was steadying Kobra, so he didn't want to move. Instead of taking his hand away, he used his free hand to wipe away the rest of Kobra's mostly dried tears, and drew swirls on his face up until the corner of his eye, and quietly, quietly, afraid to break the uneasy silence, said, "Do you...do you want me to stay?" 

Kobra still didn't open his eyes, but nodded slightly, leaning into Psycho's touch. Psycho dimly noted Kobra's free hand was balled into a fist, but there wasn't much to do about that.

Psycho gave him a small smile, one Kobra couldn't see, and stood up - never letting Kobra's hand go, because he was pretty positive Kobra wasn't going to let that happen - to rearrange the blankets, most of which Kobra had thrown off in his blind panic, so that they would both lay down. 

He didn't know if it was a good idea for Kobra to go back to sleep. 

But he laid down anyway, and made Kobra lay down next to him, closer than Kobra ever would've been okay with normally, but now Kobra was the one moving closer, and Psycho just went with it. Whatever made Kobra feel comfortable right now was top priority. 

Psycho didn't fall asleep; spending his time rubbing circles on Kobra's back, starting to sing those lullabies again in a shaky voice. He wasn't sure when he'd re-closed Kobra's door, but apparently he had or it had fallen shut, but he thought he heard the diner door opening and slamming closed, and maybe some harsh whispers, but those weren't his concern.

There were no windows, obviously. Psycho might've fallen asleep in the dead of night, or maybe in the early dawn.

But he fell asleep wondering what else this Desert hid than crying pretty boys and fiery angelic halos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please p l e a s e give me feedback, guys and gals and all other non gender specific pals, you don't know how much it means ~

**Author's Note:**

> First time making a planned out killjoy fic! Let's see how this goes - thoughts? Comments are all appreciated!


End file.
